Twist of Fate
by Peachuzoid
Summary: The events of 3.15 happen differently in that Merle finds Daryl has been killed and turned. Full description inside. Rated T for language. One-shot.


_**TWD Kinkmeme Prompt:**__ The events of 3.15 happen differently in that Merle finds that Daryl has been killed and turned, although how Daryl was killed is up to you (did the Governor get him, or did he run afoul of a walker?). How does he react? What does he do?_

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of The Walking Dead. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**A/N:** I don't think you realize how heartbreaking this was for me just to _write_. Damn… This show leaves me with all kinds of feels and it hurts. I wrote this all in one go and once I started, I couldn't stop. This is the end result.

* * *

"Come back to the prison." Michonne was staring at him from the passenger seat. She had a look of determination if Merle had ever seen it, her voice almost pleading. "It's not too late. You can do right by everyone."

"The only person I care about back there is my brother, and he don't even seem all too thrilled to have me around." Merle stared out the windshield, unable to look back at Michonne. His own words stung. The only person he had left in the world that he even gave a shit about was Daryl.

"You can change that. Daryl's your brother, he cares about you," Michonne tried again.

Merle scoffed, "Yeah, I can change alright. S'why I gotta do this—for that reason. I gotta kill the Governor, bring all this to an end." It was the only way he saw fit, the only way he saw that he could redeem himself. He had to kill the Governor, he had to bring this war to an end before someone got killed. He owed Daryl that much.

"Just come back to the prison. This can all be sorted out. You going out there alone isn't the way."

Merle turned to Michonne, narrowing his eyes. He held his gaze long enough to make her shift uncomfortably, her hand resting on the door handle to allow herself to exit at a moment's notice.

"You just gonna keep sitting there or am I gonna hafta follow through with my original plan after all?" Merle raised an eyebrow.

Michonne shook her head, opening the car door and stepping out. She ducked down and stared back at Merle one last time, her eyes pleading with him to turn the car around and go back to the prison. But Merle didn't listen—he didn't _want_ to. What did she know about the Governor, or even Daryl for that matter?

Michonne shut the door and Merle didn't think twice to put his foot on the gas to take off, leaving her alone to walk back to the prison. She was on her own, much like he was. But he had business to take care of.

* * *

Merle brought the old beater of a car to a halt just outside an abandoned bar. Lucky for him, he had known about its location due to the Governor's taste for fine liquor. He had never made the run himself but the Governor gave away the bar's location for future trips.

Surprisingly, Merle hadn't touched an ounce of alcohol in over quite some time. Well… He hadn't helped himself to so much that he was knockdown drunk off his ass.

He exited from the car and easily spotted a remaining bottle of some aged whiskey, left over from any previous run. Why they didn't take it then was beyond Merle but he didn't much care. He brought the bottle back to the car as he took a few swigs, the alcohol burning the back of his throat as it traveled down.

Merle had a feeling that whatever was about to happen, he wasn't going to make it back to the prison. It wasn't his intention but he couldn't shake the feeling. He thought about what Daryl had told him last, that he wanted his brother back. Merle shook his head and scoffed, taking a few more swigs. He _was_ back—wasn't that enough?

_Man, just get out of here._

Merle tossed the whiskey into the passenger seat and ditched the car. He figured he would try for a quiet approach. If he could find a place to set up a sniping location, a place to claim as his own little perch, he could take out the Governor _and_ a few of his little rats with no problem.

* * *

It took a little while before the grain silo came into view. Merle made his way across the tall windblown grass before he truly surveyed the area. Something had already gone down. There were a couple of men from Woodbury on the ground, a few walkers—they were all dead.

A couple of walkers had chosen their next meal out of the Woodbury men as a select few others were milling around. The dumb dead bastards.

But then he saw it: there was a bolt protruding from one of the walker's heads sprawled out on the ground. Merle's heart raced as his eyes scanned the field.

Daryl's crossbow.

More bodies.

Merle killed a couple of walkers that were still alive and walking around. He simply drove the bayonet attachment through their skulls and dropped them with ease.

That's when he found him.

"Daryl?..." Merle was hopeful, his voice slightly cracking. He couldn't move. He was frozen where he stood. Daryl was lying on his side, his back facing him, slowly moving to get to his feet. But Merle could see the blood from where he was standing. He had been shot in the chest and the bullet had gone clean through. He felt his stomach roil at the sight. He knew that his brother was dead, he knew that he was a walker... but he couldn't take his eyes off him.

Daryl turned and looked right at him. He paused for just a moment, his eyes locking onto Merle's. They weren't his eyes though. They had a bloodshot appearance, his irises more pale than his normal blue. They were _lifeless_.

"You dumb son of a bitch..." Merle muttered, shaking his head. Daryl began to walk towards him, stumbling over a dead walker, never once looking away. Daryl had come out here to try and stop him... except he wasn't even here. He let Michonne go.

_Daryl... _

Daryl reached out for Merle, grasping for his shirt as Merle shoved him back.

"Why the fuck did you come out here!" Merle shouted at him, shoving him back again.

Daryl stumbled but still kept trying to make it to Merle. Merle could tell he didn't go down without a fight. His nose was busted up, his lip was split, and his right hand looked as though it had been put through the wringer. He was a bloody mess. The Governor attacked him before he ultimately shot and killed him, and the number that he did to Daryl's right hand was directed at Merle—it was all done on purpose.

"Any other time you'd have let me learn the hard way—why now!" Merle grabbed Daryl by his shirt and kept him at arm's length, staring at him as Daryl tried to grab him by his shirt in return, his arms outstretched. Merle could hear his raspy breathing; he listened to it as he watched his little brother struggle.

Daryl's fingers brushed over Merle's shirt, now slightly growling out of frustration. This would be the last time Merle would ever see him on his feet, the last time he'd see him with any form of life left in him. This was his fault. If he hadn't taken off with Michonne, Daryl would still be alive. Not _this_. Not a walker.

Not a _monster_.

"Jesus Christ..." Merle finally forced himself to look away, tears building in his eyes. He never cried—_never_. Not when Ma died, not when Daryl told him that Pa was dead, not even when Daryl told him what happened to Uncle Jess. None of that _hurt_ like this did. He couldn't do it. He couldn't face his brother like this.

But it wasn't his brother... Not anymore.

Merle threw Daryl to the ground and held him down with his left arm across his throat. Daryl grabbed at his shirt, now able to reach it as he tugged. His left hand brushed across Merle's face as he shook it off. But Daryl kept reaching and grabbing onto him. It was only making matters that much more difficult.

Out of frustration, Merle smacked Daryl's left arm back with his prosthesis before pinning that arm down for a moment, staring him in the face. Daryl wasn't looking back at him. He was only focused on trying to bite into him. He was gone. Merle swallowed whatever was about to force its way up and closed his eyes.

He had always been the sweet one, his baby brother. Was always trying to stick his nose where it didn't belong, trying to help others. He helped them survivors before they made it to Atlanta. Daryl took care of him when he got too tangled up in his own mess. He came for him once the shit hit the fan way back when this whole apocalypse started. And how did he repay his little brother? He treated him like a pile of shit. Drug him back to that damn bar just so he could get his stash. Abandoned him after that. And when he found him, it wasn't long until they met up with Officer Friendly and Co. It felt like they had just found each other again and Merle still never had the chance to make things right.

No—he had the chance, he just never took it. He thought there'd be more time. Wasn't that always everyone's excuse? How was he supposed to know that his baby brother would die before him? He never would have expected it. He _didn't_.

Merle opened his eyes and stared back down at Daryl. He was still struggling to move and get a hold of him. His feet were slipping in an attempt to find purchase on the grassy ground beneath him. His right arm sought out Merle's arm in a clumsy manner, stuck between trying to decide whether to push his arm away or pull him closer. Merle still had his left arm trapped under his prosthesis.

Merle sighed as he grabbed Daryl under the chin and quickly jabbed the bayonet attachment through his temple. He pulled his right arm back, his breath heaving in his chest. He refrained from stabbing him again, realizing that taking any anger out on Daryl was useless. It wasn't Daryl's fault, it was his own.

And just like that, everything fell silent. There were no more raspy breaths coming from Daryl, his arms fell back to the ground, limp and lifeless. Merle fought back his tears as he reached out and closed Daryl's eyes.

"Why... Why, Jesus, why?" Merle wiped at his face. "Daryl..." He gripped Daryl's shirt in his hand, feeling as though he were about to collapse.

The Governor... He'd make him pay.

If it's a war he wants, then it's a war he shall fucking receive.


End file.
